Pathway to Japanese Literature

Azalea Hill Guardian Shrine Hide-and-Seek Twilight Hour Great Marsh Night Heron Nine Echoes Ferry Hometown Thousand-Spell Dharani

Azalea Hill

It was noon.
On the Taratara Slope of the Arara Tree, there was no shade from the trees.
At the base of the slope, between the temple gate, the gardener’s yard, and the flower shop, lay the town’s entrance; but as one climbed higher, there were only fields.
Something resembling a guardhouse could be seen in a slightly elevated place.
In the valley, rape blossoms remained.
On both sides of the path, crimson azalea flowers bloomed in such profusion that wherever I looked—ahead or behind—they were now at their peak.
As he walked on, a little sweat began to form.

The sky was perfectly clear without a single cloud, and a warm wind blew across the open fields.

Though the gentle Elder Sister had told him not to go alone, he did not consent and sneaked out.
What a delightful view!

From higher up the mountain descended a man shouldering a bundle of firewood.
With thick eyebrows and narrow eyes—his head wrapped in a cloth bandana—sweat glistening on his forehead as he lumbered closer while yielding way to me on the narrow path; then turning back,

"Dangerous! Dangerous!"

With that, he squinted his eyes and briskly walked past.

When he looked back down Hayataratara Slope, hidden by the azalea flowers on his shoulders, soon even his topknot—like a skylight—vanished into the mountain’s shadow.

In the distance along a path hidden among grasses, on a ridge path through a valley where a stream flowed, there was the retreating figure of a woman wearing a sedge hat, barefoot with a hoe shouldered, leading a little girl by the hand as she headed into the distance—and that figure too vanished into a stand of cedar trees.

Ahead too were azaleas.
Behind too were azaleas.
The mountain soil too appeared red; overwhelmed by its terrifying beauty, I thought to return home—when from the azalea bush where I sat rose an insect with a loud fluttering sound that grazed my cheek before flying off to settle beside a stone some five or six feet away.
The fluttering of its wings was visible.
When he raised his hand and charged at it, it darted up again to land at roughly the same distance of five or six feet.
He picked up a pebble and took aim—but missed.
The insect circled once before settling back exactly as before.
If he gave chase again it would swiftly escape.
It never retreated far away—always maintaining that same faint interval while glittering with delicate wingbeats—nonchalantly twitching those two slender antennae up and down in an utterly infuriating manner.

I stomped my feet，my heart growing frustrated.
I trampled the spot where it had been，

“Damn it! Damn it!”

While muttering this，I leaped at it and struck with a smack；my fist merely became soiled with dirt.

He preened his wings leisurely a step ahead.
When I glared with a heart filled with hatred，the insect ceased to move.
Upon closer inspection，it had the form of a winged ant—though slightly larger—its body adorned with a five-colored sheen that glimmered bluishly，its beauty defied description.

Suddenly recalling Elder Sister’s teaching that colorful, glossy insects were poisonous, he stopped and began to retreat dejectedly; but upon noticing the earlier stone split into two pieces at his feet, his resolve wavered abruptly. He picked them up, turned back, and swiftly took aim at the poisonous insect.

This time, he did not miss; with a solid strike, he killed it.
He gleefully ran up, aligned the stones, struck them flat with a crack, and kicked them away; the stones threaded through the azaleas, dislodging gravel that clattered deep into the valley below.

Brushing off the dust from his sleeve and looking up at the sky, he saw that the sun’s rays had grown slightly slanted.
In the blazing sun that warmed his face until it glowed, lips dried, and from the corners of his eyes to his cheeks spread an unbearable itchiness.

When I came to my senses—realizing this slope wasn’t the one I’d come by before—I found myself starting down a different path. I must have crossed a single hill, yet the return path had turned into the same ascent as before. As I looked around—surveying—the red-soiled path narrowed, winding endlessly; azaleas lining both sides blocked the distant view ahead and behind. Beneath a deep blue sky where sunlight filtered through crimson blooms, only I trudged on.

Guardian Shrine

The slope was neither steep nor long, yet when one ended, a new one would appear.
The undulations rolled on like great waves, with no sign of when they might level out.

Being too weary, I crouched in a hollow of the ascending slope I had just descended and, with idle hands, began to scratch at the soil with whatever fingers I had. The character “sa” formed. I wrote the character “ku” too. Curved things, straight things—I scribbled them as my heart desired. Even as I did so, the spot on my cheek where the poisonous insect must have touched me earlier grew intensely itchy, so I ceaselessly rubbed it with my sleeve. Rubbing my cheek, I wrote again; among them was one difficult character that had taken a fine form. Just as I thought to show it to Elder Sister, I suddenly found myself longing to see her face.

When I stood up and looked ahead, small branches intertwined on both sides, their gaps letting crimson azaleas bloom through.
As sunlight deepened to an even fiercer red, I looked at my hand to find its palm glowing crimson.

I scrambled straight up a slope only to see those same azaleas tumbling down in endless cascades.
I ran down then scrambled back up.
"How much longer must this last?" I thought—but just when I believed this slope might differ, the path coiled into yet another winding ascent.
The ground felt soft beneath my feet, every last pebble vanished.

Though home still seemed distant beyond bearing, my yearning for Elder Sister's face grew unbearable—I couldn't endure another moment.

When I clambered up once more and dashed back down again, I found myself crying without realizing it. Though I ran weeping headlong, still I reached no place with houses; the slopes and azaleas remained unchanged from before, and the sinking sun filled me with dread. My shoulders and back grew cold. The evening sun blazed a vivid crimson, dazzling my eyes until the azalea flowers seemed like crimson snowdrifts fallen and piled high.

With my voice thick with tears, I strained my throat raw calling for Elder Sister—once, twice, thrice—but when I listened for an answer, only the distant roar of a waterfall replied through the resounding echoes. Then faintly within that din came a voice piercingly clear:

“There now, that’s enough.”

Her call faded swiftly when repeated—yet steeling myself, I followed its direction down one slope and up another until reaching a height where below lay improbably simple: a shrine’s tiled roof amid cedars.

Thus I escaped that crimson snowscape where I’d wandered lost.

Behind me azaleas bloomed scattered through sparse grass until reaching the shrine’s rear—there no crimson flowers remained as twilight veiled the purification basin’s precincts.

A fenced well stood there with an ancient ginkgo tree; behind it rose a house’s earthen wall.

This side opened to a rear gate clearing facing a small Inari shrine.

A stone torii.

A wooden torii.

On the left pillar of this wooden torii was a crack with a thick iron ring fitted into it—a detail I clearly remembered—and realizing I must be near home now, all my earlier terror vanished completely.
In that evening sunlit realm where azaleas towered above my own height—their crimson blooms choking every direction—only this vast scene remained etched in my small chest like a painting: the poisonous insect, its wings bearing hues of green, crimson, purple, and bluish-white light, glittering as it flew.

Hide-and-seek

Earlier, when I burst into tears and sought rescue from Elder Sister, it was fortunate she noticed.
I had gone out alone without heeding their warnings; if they were to discover I'd become weak and cried, they would surely laugh at me as expected.
Though I longed for that kind person, facing her and being talked down would be mortifying.

My heart filled with joyous delight until I no longer thought of hurrying home.

As I wandered alone through the shrine grounds, a sudden “Wha—” of voices and laughter rang out—from behind trees, wells, temple halls, and beneath corridors—as five or six children aged five to eight came running forth; this I recognized as a hide-and-seek game where someone had been found.
Two or three ran over and spotted me standing there.
All eyes focused,

“Come play! Come play with us!” they pressed closer and urged.
Small houses dotted the area; those who lived here were said to be common folk.
Their ways were somewhat different.
Though their parents’ households were well-off, they wore no fine clothes; most went barefoot.
Those who played shamisen at our gate now and then; those who caught loaches in ditches; those hawking clogs and sandals—all were these children’s mothers, fathers, grandmothers.
“Do not play with such people,” my friends had always warned.
Now as for these townsfolk’s children—though they revered me with earnest pleas to join them awhile, kind and warm in their urging—I had ever kept aloof. But then my loneliness grew too sharp, that craving for companionship too keen; mingled with lingering terror’s aftermath and promised joy’s allure, I did not refuse—I nodded.

The children buzzed with excitement and rejoiced.
So, to repeat the game of hide-and-seek, they decided by rock-paper-scissors who would be "it"—and I was assigned that role.
I covered my face as instructed.
The world hushed—only the roar of the waterfall plunging down the shrine’s rear cliff and the evening wind moaning through the treetops of pines and cedars echoed.
Faintly,

“There, there. That’s enough now.”

The voice calling out resounded through the echoes. When I opened my eyes, the surroundings had fallen silent, and the twilight hue assailed me even more intensely. The large trees stood tall in rows as I tried to hide within the dim, hazy gloom.

When I turned to where the voice had come from, there was no one. I searched here and there, but there was nothing resembling a person.

Once more I stood at the center of the old shrine grounds and gazed out with aching loneliness. With a fearsome noise that must have echoed to the mountain depths—the sound of the temple door being locked—all fell deathly silent.

They were not close friends. Since they were always detestable children, they must have seized this opportunity to plot to torment me. If they had hidden themselves and secretly run away, then even if I searched, they would never be found. Realizing it was a futile endeavor to pursue, I abandoned it and turned on my heel. Yet even so—if they were waiting for me to find them, they might never emerge at all; that too felt impossible to gauge. My mind in disarray, I paced back and forth, stranded in futile agitation—when suddenly, from nowhere discernible, there stood the Beautiful Woman beside me in the dimming shrine grounds: her pale figure stark against the broad sweep of grayish soil swept immaculately clean. Head tilted downward, she watched me.

She was an extremely tall woman, her hands tucked into her sleeves and shoulders slouched.
In a gentle voice,

“Come here.”
“This way.”

Having said this, she stood before me and began to lead.
Though she was no woman I knew, her beautiful face held a smile; thinking her a kind person, and sensing she meant to show me where the hidden child was—strange as it seemed—I eagerly followed.

**Twilight Hour**

Just as I had thought, after circling left around the front of the hall and walking a short distance, there stood a small Inari shrine at the path’s end. Blue and white flags—two or three of them—stood before it; behind, at the mountain’s foot, grew slanting miscellaneous trees that covered the shrine above, and beneath their shadowed gloom lay a hollow-like clearing—she gestured toward it with her eyes. Her gaze—glistening as if water dripped from them—slanted toward my face with such vivid motion that her intent became clear.

Without hesitation, I peered around the back of the shrine—a wind so cold it stung my nostrils swept through. Only the smell of fallen leaves, rotting foliage, and moldy earth lingered—no trace of human presence—and as I turned around, my chest tightening at the coldness on my nape, in that very instant, she—the woman I thought was there—vanished without a trace. She must have gone somewhere, and it grew dark.

My hair stood on end, and I let out an involuntary “Agh!”

When human faces are indistinct, do not go into dark corners—for in twilight’s hidden corners lurk strange beings that beguile people; so Elder Sister had taught me.

I stared blankly, my eyes wide open.
My legs trembled, so I couldn’t move; I stiffened and stood frozen—to my left was a slope.
Like a hole—from the pitch-black slope below, where I thought wind blew up from its depths—something seemed to be ascending; terrified that if I stayed here, I would be captured, I fled thoughtlessly into the narrow space behind the shrine.
Covering my eyes and stifling my breath, I hid—then came the presence of a four-legged creature walking past before the shrine.

I curled up tightly, no longer in my right mind and desperate not to be seen. Yet I could not forget her beautiful face—those kind eyes. When I thought back on why she had shown me this place—was it not to reveal where the children hid? Had she instead guided me here to hide from something terrifying that sought to seize me? Such futile thoughts I pondered. After a while, I spotted a small lantern’s crimson glow racing up from the slope’s base before vanishing into the distance. Not long after they turned back and neared the shrine where I hid, I sensed not one but two or three figures approaching together.

Just as they had come to a halt, another set of footsteps ascended the slope and converged with the earlier ones.

“Hey, hey—can’t you figure it out?”

“Strange. Someone definitely said they saw him around here.”

The voice calling from behind resembled that of a servant employed at our house. He nearly stepped out, but the unsettling presence of something terrifying—fearing it might be a ploy to lure him into the open—only intensified his dread.

“Once more for safety’s sake—let’s check around the rice fields. I’m counting on you too.”

“In that case,” they said, then split up haphazardly and went their separate ways.

When silence fell once more, he shifted slightly, stretched his legs, placed his hands on the wooden boards, poked out just enough of his face for his eyes to peer out, and scanned the outside. Finding nothing amiss, he settled somewhat.
He laughed coldly at the foolishness of those strange beings—how could they ever find me?—when unexpectedly, someone let out a shrill cry and fled in panic.
Startled, he hid again.

“Chisato-ya, Chisato-ya,” came the voice calling me plaintively from around the base of the slope—it was Elder Sister’s.

Ōnuma

“He’s not here! What should I do, Old Man?”

“There’s no chance he was here at all, but night’s falling.”
“Now now, no need for frettin’, ma’am.”
“When you let him out to play, milady—if only you’d given his obi knot a proper tap.”

“Ahh—I always do let him out proper-like—but today you hid from me and slipped out quiet-like on your own—didn’t you?”

“Well now, that’s a cursed shame.”
“Give that obi knot one good thump—why, Elder Sister’s spirit or Mother’s would’ve slipped right in—then them demons couldn’t lay a finger on him, that’s how ’tis.”

“Hmm, perhaps…” she murmured melancholically while crossing before the shrine.

I ran out, but it was too late.

Why had I come to suspect even Elder Sister?

Regret availed me nothing; though I pursued her as far as the torii gate in the distant shrine grounds, her figure had already vanished.

As I trudged tearfully onward, I suddenly saw—beneath a ginkgo tree whose looming shadow spread large and round against the dark night sky—the figure of a woman blocking my view.

Since she bore such striking resemblance to Elder Sister, I nearly called out—but stayed silent, fearing it unwise to address this ill-omened thing and reveal my presence through careless speech.

With that thought left unspoken, her figure vanished once more.
Though unseen now, she grew ever more missed; even were she some terrifying being wearing Elder Sister’s gentle form—would she truly seize me with cruelty?
The earlier apparition had been different—whether this phantom glimpsed now was truly her remained unclear—and why had I not called out? My bitter weeping brought no answer.

All these pitifully varied apparitions must have been some malfunction of my eyes—or else tears had clouded my vision; perhaps some enchantment was at work—so I approached the distant purification basin to cleanse myself and see.

A sooted, horizontally elongated lantern hung above, adorned with a painting of a cuckoo and inscribed verses. When lit, its light revealed even the bottom of the moss-covered stone basin through water so clear it seemed crystalline.
As I bent to cup some in my hands and looked down, what manner of face did I see staring back?
An involuntary cry escaped me before I steeled my mind, steadied my breath, wiped my eyes repeatedly, and confronted the water anew.

This was not me—I could not bear to look again—yet why should I be like this? Surely my mind had gone astray—now, now—trembling, I looked once more; clutching my shoulders, my voice quivered—

“S-Se... Senri.”
“There, there—it’s you.” As Elder Sister spoke, I clung to her and turned to look—she gazed upon my face,

“Ah!”

With that, she took one step back and—

“You were mistaken, Boy.” With only those words, she abruptly turned and departed.

Furious at how the mysterious deity had tormented me with all manner of tricks, I stamped my feet and wept bitterly while chasing headlong after it. What they might do upon capturing me—this I did not know. Consumed by sheer vexation, I resolved to press on regardless.

I descended slopes and climbed them, emerged into what seemed a main street town, followed dark paths, and crossed fields. I did not cross the ridges. I ran without looking back.

How far had the path stretched? In the midst of vast, dark waters spread out like a galaxy, surrounded on all sides by a black and dreadful forest—what I took to be Ōnuma seemed to block my way ahead. Within the thick reeds where my body had collapsed... beyond that, I knew nothing.

Night Heron

The edges of his eyes felt refreshingly clear; as a cool fragrance intensely permeated his awareness, he realized his body lay upon a soft futon. Slightly lifting his head from the pillow to look, he found the bamboo-edged shoji left wide open; beyond the garden extending before him within the mountain’s embrace, verdant grasses grew thickly with a blue-damp hue where rain had soaked them. Upon the smooth moss of a rocky outcrop clinging halfway up the mountainside burned the shadowy form of a single bare candle, its light coolly flickering. Near a bamboo water channel where water bubbled up and fell in jewel-like droplets, someone had placed a basin—and there reclined a woman with exquisitely arranged hair, not a single thread covering her form as she lay facing away.

The bamboo channel’s water fell into the basin, overflowed, and made the sound of flowing into a depression in the ground.

The candle flame flared crimson in the mountain wind that bore no breath, then darkened, its flickering light casting upon her skin as white as snow.

At the sound of my tossing, she suddenly turned this way, nodded as if in acknowledgment, and with one hand on the rim and one leg raised, stepped out of the basin—when with a swish, a bird smaller than a crow, pure white, fluttered down, grazing past the Beautiful Woman’s shins.
Just as it fearlessly rested its wings, she splashed water over it and, with an elegant smile, stood up.
She deftly covered her chest with her garment.
The bird, startled, flapped its wings and flew away.

The night’s hue grew profoundly dark; the figure of the Beautiful Woman holding a candle stood distinct, the heavy scrape of her garden geta resounded. As she slowly settled onto the edge of the veranda, placing a hand behind her and twisting around, she gazed at my face.

“Are you feeling better, Boy?”

With that, she tilted her head.
Her face was nobly proportioned; her eyebrows vivid, her eyes coolly clear, her nose slightly high, her lips crimson; her forehead and cheeks bore a stately maturity.
Since she closely resembled the doll he had long convinced himself was ideal, he saw her as a noble person.
Her age was greater than Elder Sister’s.
Though she was no acquaintance, he did not feel this was their first meeting; rather, he gazed intently, wondering who she could be.

She smiled graciously,

“You see, that’s what they call a tiger beetle—a terribly poisonous insect.”
“There now, you’ve become so beautifully transformed—no wonder Elder Sister didn’t recognize you.”

I hadn’t thought myself to be so—yet neither was I entirely not. Now convinced beyond doubt that this was true, I nodded as she told me to do. When he tried to rise from his nightclothes due to the unfamiliar surroundings, she kept her hand pressed softly yet firmly on his shoulder.

“Stay still now—your condition is poor, so calm down, settle your mind, alright?”

I did not resist and answered only with my eyes.

“Well then,” she said as she stood up—when suddenly there came the sound of heavy footsteps crushing the roadside grass—an old man clad in patched garments, his face flushed deep red, approached the veranda.

“Aye, this young master was here—ain’t he a dear one? You must be glad.”
“Hahaha, well then, shall I have the usual again?”

He bent at the waist, pressed his face tightly against the bamboo spout, and with his mouth pressed to it, gulped noisily in rapid succession—then suddenly blew out a breath and looked up at the sky.

“Ahh, sweet nectar this is.”
“Aye, I’ll take my leave now.”

As he turned on his heel, she called out from this side.

“Old Man, you’ve done well.”
“Please come again—I must return this child.”

“Alright, alright.”

He answered and left.
The mountain wind swept down with a rustle, and that white bird came soaring once more.
It rode into the black basin, preened its feathers, and settled.

“Now, I’ll let you sleep so you don’t catch a cold. Well then, I’ll join you too.”
She quietly slid the storm shutters closed.

Nine Echoes

Perhaps because she had deigned to lie beside me and had earlier deigned to bathe, my skin now and then shuddered, yet with no clarity of mind to grasp onto.
When I kept asking for more, she deigned to tell me two or three childhood stories.
Before long,

“One Echo, Boy—can you say Two Echoes?”

“Two Echoes.”

“Three Echoes, Four Echoes—go on and say them.”

“Four Echoes.”

“Five Echoes.”
“What comes after that?”
“Six Echoes.”

“That’s right—Seven Echoes.”

“Eight Echoes.”

“Nine Echoes—here, this place is called Nine Echoes.”
“Now then, you must behave like an adult and go to sleep.”

She placed a hand on his back and drew him close, then had him suckle her jewel-like breasts. Her dew-white collar and the disheveled strands of hair cascading about her shoulders—this appearance differed greatly from my Elder Sister's. Elder Sister did not permit me to suckle milk.

If I rummaged through her bosom, she would always scold me. Three years had passed since Mother had departed this world. I had not forgotten milk's taste, yet what now filled my mouth bore no resemblance to it. When he took the pendant-like breast between his lips, it dissolved like spring snow upon his tongue—leaving no tangible trace—while cool saliva alone welled forth.

When someone lightly patted my back and I regained awareness, I recognized roof beams and a ceiling above me; a dreadful noise kept roaring ceaselessly for some time. As a whirlwind blew through there and pillars shook terrifyingly, trembling violently I clung tight to her,

"Oh dear—since we have a guest tonight, you must endure this just for now. It simply won't do."

When she spoke thus, it soon subsided.

“It’s not scary.
It’s just a mouse.”

Though her words were casual，I still trembled，the echo of something’s scream lingering in my ears.

The Beautiful Woman half-rose and，from a lacquered handbox adorned with maki-e，took out a small dagger；while still in its sheath，she partially drew it，and in a brave voice—

“Nothing can frighten you now—sleep peacefully.” Taking heart in her reassuring declaration，I pressed my face tightly against her chest—then suddenly awoke.
The remaining lamp dim，the black bedpost faintly gleaming where a pale purple hue pooled，the scent of incense lingered.
He removed the pillow and raised his face.
With her face resting against his，her eyes gently closed—eyelashes so near one could count them—she had fallen peacefully asleep.
The will to speak arose too late；he gazed for a while，but unable to bear the loneliness，he secretly touched his fingertip to her lips.
His finger strayed and did not reach her lips；she was sleeping too deeply.
He adjusted his nose and closed his eyes；then he gazed fixedly once more.
When he suddenly aimed at her nose and touched it—twisting away—the Beautiful Woman’s face remained as immobile as a doll’s，not a single muscle relaxing.
He pressed at the edge of her eyelid—as though trying to mold some crystalline form—his face drawing so near that her stray hairs brushed his cheek，yet still his fingertips could not reach her face．Resolved，he pressed his forehead hard against the space below her breast；her skin met him only as a warm haze，soft and ethereal，but the ornament adorning her forehead—thin as a single petal and unsupported—slipped loose and sank downward．When he noticed this，the Beautiful Woman’s chest lay as before beside him，upturned，while his nose buried itself uselessly into the pliant quilt warmed by his own skin—a curious sensation．

Ferry

Unable to discern whether it was dream or illusion, he calmed his heart and fixed his eyes to look: the hand that had allowed him to use it as a pillow remained as before—soft and limp—hanging over the quilt.

With one hand pressed to her chest—her slender snow-white fingers splayed—she held without truly grasping it a small dagger whose lacquered sheath gleamed with golden fittings, letting it rest near her breast. Her high-nosed face upturned, lips poised as if to speak, closed eyes smiling faintly, hair cascading in disarray across the pillow—all unchanged save for the blade now laid upon her chest. She bore no resemblance to Mother in her final moments, yet this vision of the lady too seeming to depart filled him with such dread that he lunged to remove it. He seized the dagger at her breast and yanked—the blade slid free with a blue flash that pierced his eyes—and by what impulse he knew not, a torrent of blood gushed forth.
His vision went dark.
Slickly it flowed and seeped—alas—he pressed down with both fists yet it would not cease; with a relentless roar it streamed forth drenching and dyeing the crimson garment in cascading flow.
The Beautiful Woman silent as a stone statue began from beneath her still solar plexus and soon immersed half her body completely.
Though my pressed hands bore no trace of blood’s hue the crimson glimpsed within my fingers held to the lamp was not human blood’s stain; when I curiously tested my palm that surge showed no wetness either. Upon closer scrutiny it proved to be the red hue cloaking her skin—revealed now by the night I had scraped away—translucent as cool silk woven through with light.
Now beside myself I called out “Mother! Mother!” in a loud voice—shouted shook her pushed and moved her—but to no avail; I simply cried and cried until before I knew it I had fallen asleep.
He awoke to the sensation of a warm face pressed against his chest.

The sky was clear and blue, the sunlight dazzling; the trees and grass glistened so intensely that the heat felt palpable.

I was carried on Haya’s back—the red-faced old man whose countenance I had seen the previous night—along a mountain path. From behind, that Beautiful Woman followed and came.

Now they must be sending me home as arranged—I could only surmise—and since my heart lay utterly transparent before their knowing eyes, there was no profit in giving voice to either parting’s sorrow or lingering doubts.
Were there teachings to impart, those beyond would have deigned to speak them first.

If it were my fate to return home, then even were I to beg them to forcibly stop me—what could be done? Since there must be reason enough—thus I went like an adult, saying nothing.

Cliffs towered on both sides; there was a place where a dripping sound occurred.
There was a path overgrown with tall weeds.
There was also a place passing through pines and cypresses.
An unfamiliar bird sang.
There was a brown beast that now and then leaped into the thicket.
Though it was not a path one would tread through, last year’s fallen leaves had buried it, and it did not appear to be a place where many passed.

Uncle had an axe at his waist.
Trudging heavily as if following protocol whenever brambles grew thickly and blocked garment sleeves along their path—he would slash through them with brisk efficiency—clearing passage for Beautiful Woman.
Thus unhindered came she along mountain trails—high lacquered geta sandals flickering beneath long hems skillfully managed.

And thus they came to the shore of the great swamp.
The water stretched vast and indigo; even the dazzling sunlight’s radiance did not reach this forest, while the wind sweeping over the surface turned cold with a soughing sound.
Uncle Nashirou arrived there and abruptly lowered me.
When I ran up and took her hand, she rose to embrace my shoulders; the sleeves of her kimono, longer on both sides, draped over them.

Untying the small boat’s rope among the reeds, the old man lifted me and put me aboard.
Thinking we shouldn’t be separated, I fussed awhile—but as dizziness overcame her and she did not board, with a murmured farewell he thrust the pole.
The boat set out.
I burst into tears and stood up, but stumbled and fell on my backside.
It was the first time I had ridden in a boat.
Each time the water parted, my vision swam; she who I thought had remained behind now circled in a great arc and had taken up position on the shore ahead.
When I wondered how she had crossed over, Haya appeared on the shore to the left.
In the blink of an eye, he circled to the shore on the right, and soon she stood behind where he had been.
The great swamp shaped like a winnowing basket rotated in a loose ring together with the reeds along its shore, the pine trees, the signpost, and the Beautiful Woman beside them—at first turning slowly, then growing rapid, swifter still, spinning round and round in ever finer revolutions—until a pine tree clinging close appeared just a foot from my face. For but a moment, her beautiful visage, aged yet noble, smiled elegantly before me—and then was seen no more.
The reeds grew thick and taller than their height along the shore, and the boat thudded against it.

*Hometown*

Uncle helped me out of the boat.
He turned his back again.

“There now, no need to cry, no need to cry.
“You’ll be home soon, Young Master,” he comforted.
Though his sadness stemmed not from that reason, having no words to speak he simply wept; yet gradually feeling bodily exhaustion—hands and legs gone limp as cotton—he was carried on shoulders with face hung low as they went.
When they reached the familiar wooden fence at day’s waning hour, the Old Man lifted me down, stood me by the ditch’s edge, and with a beaming smile offered a courteous bow.

“Do act like an adult now.”
“Yes.”

With those words—where might he be going?
The parting pained me beyond measure, yet lacking strength to follow after them, I could only watch until they vanished from sight.
I walked without direction—head swaying drunkenly, legs leaden—each step a trial. Whether moving forward or turning back lay only familiar sights; none among those coming and going paid me any heed.
Still they kept glancing at my face as they passed—those coldly mocking looks filled with such detestable scorn that rage burned within.
Deeming this town utterly loathsome, my feet turned unbidden once more toward the mountains—trudging heavily up paths where peaks loomed.

With a shrill clatter of footsteps, someone seized my collar in an eagle-like grip. When I turned back with a gasp—there behind my house stood Uncle Nashirou, that uncle of formidable strength—his expression fearsome as...

“Don’t grab me! Where do you think you’re wandering off to?!” he snarled, dragging him away. Fearing they might drag him out to the garden and douse him with water again, he wept and struggled—but the hands restraining him would not relent.

“Pull yourself together.”
“You hear?”

Dizzyingly slapped on the back and left dangling mid-air, he was rushed all the way home. After scolding the clamoring servants, he had them bring a thin cord, bound both hands firmly without resistance, led him into a dim three-tatami room deep within, and tied him straight to a pillar. They drew near, thinking he might bite at any moment—gnashing their teeth and glaring, their eyes taking on a strange hue, their upturned canthi as if proof of possession by some spirit—and as they crowded around cursing him in unison, how infuriating it was.

From the front came a clamor, and I thought Elder Sister—who had gone somewhere—must have returned; several sliding doors clattered open as she hurriedly arrived here. Uncle Nashirou intercepted her outside the room and blocked her way.

“Well, I’ve finally retrieved him,” he said, “but you mustn’t untie the ropes. His eyes are bloodshot—he’ll bolt given half a chance. It’s demons luring him out.”

He admonished her thus.

What he said had indeed grasped my heart—yes, were there but a chance, how could I remain here?

With a startled "Ah—", Elder Sister stumbled in and clung tightly to him.
Without a word, she wept profusely; my chest felt as though it were being wrung by her emotion-laden hands that held me close.

While I lay on Elder Sister’s lap, a doctor came and took my pulse.
Uncle departed in that direction together with the doctor.

“Chisaya, please keep your wits about you.”
“What is Elder Sister to do now?”
“You—it’s me.”
“It’s your sister.”
“You understand, right? It’s me.”

With a deep breath, she stared intently at my face—nothing but glistening tear stains remained.

To put her heart at ease, she forced her face into a strained smile.

“Oh, how eerie this is.”

The person beside them—Nashirou’s wife—muttered and shuddered.

Before long, people surrounded me again and interrogated me as if accusing me of past misdeeds. Though I wanted to explain everything clearly to dispel their doubts, how could my childish tongue recount events in proper order? Their relentless questioning—digging into roots and leaves—piled explanation upon explanation until I grew utterly exhausted.
What had I babbled in my waking mind?

Though they finally loosened my restraints, they still treated me like someone whose mind had snapped.
Nothing I said was believed; everything I did only deepened their suspicions—what could I do?
They kept me tightly confined, not even letting me into the garden.
As my complexion worsened and I grew gaunt, Elder Sister—desperately hiding this from my guardian Uncle and his wife—sneaked me out at dusk to show me the outside scenery. But when the crowd of children by the gate saw me, they all shouted in unison: “Look! The kidnapped freak! The lunatic! The fox-possessed!” Those grabbing gravel and pebbles to throw were none other than friends who had once been so dear.

Elder Sister shielded me with her sleeve, her face flushing red as she hurriedly retreated.
In the blink of an eye, as she saw me settled in a place where no eyes could see, she grabbed me, forced me down, and struck me.

When he grew sad and began to cry, she hurriedly rubbed his back,

“Please forgive me, oh, you poor thing.”

She started to say,

“I must be losing my mind,” she pleaded plaintively.
"I who would never change through time—why must even she, my sole cherished Elder Sister in this world, plead tearfully each time she saw my face: 'Keep your wits firm, calm your heart'—how then could this not make me fear with growing intensity that I had indeed fallen to madness? Thus I truly grew ever more deranged."

It felt as if strange threads were wrapping layer upon layer around my body. Gradually, I felt myself sinking deeper and deeper into darkness. I sought to slash through them and flee, yet found no means of escape. Every deed I attempted—whenever people saw them—they would inevitably furrow their brows, mock, laugh, scorn, revile, even grieve and fret. My spirit rose, my heart raged; consumed with gnawing restlessness, everything in existence infuriated me.

While resentful and infuriated, I perceived everything around me as enemies. The town, the house, the tree, the birdcage—what were any of them? Even Elder Sister—was she truly my sister? Once before, she had seen me and forgotten her own brother. Not a speck of dust that entered my eyes remained as it was—all things transformed into manifestations of some dreadful, uncanny god seeking to torment me. Therefore, even Elder Sister’s words praying for my recovery must have been deliberately crafted to drive me mad—once this thought took hold, it became unbearable; had I the strength, I would recklessly do whatever it took—bite those who approached, kick them away, tear at them—and if a path opened, I would leap out and flee to that noble and beautiful one who had shown me Nine Echoes. Though my chest burned with such resolve, I was once again confined to the dark room.

Thousand-Spell Dharani

If I suspected poison, I would not eat; how could I drink any medicine? Though she wore a beautiful face and spoke gentle words, to this false sister I would not utter a word. What met my eyes—raging madly, shouting curses—ended with me falling silent and immobile, insensible to others as if nearing death. Half-conscious, I was carried up a high stone platform, passed through a great gate, and walked along a long path of red earth swept clean, flanked alternately on both sides by stone lanterns and small pomegranate trees spaced at equal intervals. Reaching thick pillars saturated with incense where the temple’s main hall stood—just as this thought formed—a bamboo-splitting roar burst into my ears. Five or six monks chanted in unison, their deafening voices rising clamorously. Bald-headed monks lining the wooden edges raised their fists; one moved to strike a skylight when a streak of blue light pierced the window. Crystal prayer beads grazed my vision—a *crack* struck my chest, making me flinch and crouch. A young monk crawled out from behind a pillar, settled himself, and rustled aside a brocade curtain. Within the dazzling shrine altar lay enshrined a revered statue.

The chanting voices rose to a crescendo; corrugated iron clattered, resounding through heaven and earth.

Her noble face exuded solemn grace; sleeves like clouds, hakama like mist, adorned with jeweled ornaments. With delicate hands resting upon her jewel-like chest, she held the child close. When I saw her gazing upward again and again, her eyes moving as she smiled tenderly, Elder Sister’s gentle hand came to rest on my shoulder as she prayed fervently.

“The waterfall—was it cascading over this hall?” Just then, the rain began to pour in torrents.
The sound of the wind swirling and surging—groaning as it approached from afar—struck the entire mountain with a roar.

The main hall glowed blue; as corrugated iron clattered across its roofline, dazzling and dazing—now relying wholly on Elder Sister, I cried out and clambered onto her lap, clinging desperately to her chest. Though she could not bring herself to cast me aside, her warm arms entwined around my back.
Perhaps because of this, both my spirit and heart grew weaker and weaker—my vision sharpened, the ringing in my ears subsided—and amidst the terrifying storm, the crisp voices of holy ones chanting the Thousand-Spell Dharani came through distinctly.
Wretchedly lonely and terrified, I had nowhere to place myself.
Wishing my entire body would vanish, I clung to her shoulders with both hands and pressed my face against her chest—she loosened her collar, pushed my head beneath her breast, and layered both sleeves deeply over my back.
Elder Sister held the Buddha’s infant as one should—settling into place with joy—and within my chest, a refreshing calm spread smoothly and peacefully.
At last, the incantation too came to an end.
The sound of thunder also grew distant.
The arms of Elder Sister, which had been firmly embracing my back, slackened; timidly, I lifted my face from her bosom and looked up at hers.
Her beauty remained undiminished, yet she herself had grown terribly haggard.
The rain and wind still raged violently outside; waiting for them to subside meant the night would pass in ceaseless tumult.
Since returning home was impossible, Elder Sister kept vigil throughout the night.
By that night’s storm, in Kuruma Mountain’s depths lay a valley called Nine Echoes—discovered by woodcutters at dawn only to become an abyss in an instant, or so it was said.

Villagers and townspeople all gathered and went to see. Over days, I too came with Elder Sister to see. That day, the heavens were radiant; both sky and water stood clear blue. A soft wind rippled small waves across the abyss—not a speck of dust nor leaf floated there—as a white bird with broad wings danced richly over indigo waters.

What a fierce tempest that had been! This valley had originally taken the shape of a medicinal mortar.

A few pine and cypress trees lay uprooted in the valley; mountainside soil had collapsed to form a natural dam blocking the stream below—thus did terrifying waters pool. “Should this place burst,” people panicked, fearing the castle-town would drown, so they tirelessly reinforced earth and stone into sturdy embankments. Now that this was when General Sekiya’s wife—Elder Sister—turned seventeen, years had passed and young evergreens shot upward in height. Grass grew thick, moss crept everywhere—so profuse one might think it had blanketed the earth since antiquity.

"Do not cast stones—you might startle the Beautiful Woman from her dreams," she scolded, restraining her impulsive friends.
A young naval cadet with a fair complexion stood solemnly before an abyss brimming with twilight’s dark jade.

November 1896 (Meiji 29)